


Half-Alive, Half-Dead

by PinboardButterfly



Category: The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Inspired by Fanfiction, Jessica Jones is bad at feelings, also small fluffy moments, but mostly kinda angsty idk, i just finished the defenders so i HAD to write this, kind of a fix-it but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinboardButterfly/pseuds/PinboardButterfly
Summary: When Jessica got her scarf back, it smelled just like him. [Jessica X Matt - *the Defenders spoilers* - little midnight drabbles of how I thought their relationship might go if, in another life, she saved him]





	Half-Alive, Half-Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished The Defenders and it was everything I'd hoped it would be (despite a few oddities). Also got me shipping everyone with everyone, but I thought I'd start out with a new fav. This fanfic is based very very loosely off an Until Dawn fic by InkheartFirebringer called ‘these are the things that did not happen’, with the same kind of concept. I've been hating my writing a lot recently so I decided to go with a very loose style for this one so I didn't have to write loads. Enjoy~

When Jessica got her scarf back, it smelled just like him.

Sometimes, she holds it close, when the tears threaten to overwhelm her, when the bottle threatens to run out. But, of course, the scent fades, as all things do. It goes back to smelling like her again; night air, booze, and bad decisions. Sometimes when the cases are too tough, or she’s nursing a black eye, or a bruised rib, and drinking on the floor of her office at three am, she’ll unloop the scarf from about her neck and press it to her face again, taking in deep, desperate breaths, searching for any sign that he’s still there. And she blinks frustrated tears away, tossing the scarf, because he’s gone. All trace of him is gone.

This is the future that did not happen:

Jessica sits, a little mesmerised, as he wanders over to the piano, a gentle murmur escaping his lips as he bumps into it, fingers outstretched. He settles himself at the keys, and something horribly like happiness washes over her as he begins to play. _He’s good._ But this is useless. Pointless. She gets up, before they go too far. Before she gets lost in the sound of the music and the movement of his gentle hands.

But he’s clever. There’s something in the piano.

Jessica feels a prong of guilt stab her in the chest when he asks her how she knew. His father, how did she know? She bluffs – a lawyer who can parkour his way up the side of a building? And he’s blind? You’ve got to be kidding me. It wasn’t hard to find his details; he’d won a good few cases of importance over the years, so, of course, some snot-nosed reporter had dredged up his less-than-happy past for the world to see. Well, maybe not the world, but New York, at least. Yet, still, like tiny knives in her heart, shards of glass digging in, when he speaks. It flutters, like she’s afraid.

But he’s not paying attention. Her voice is even, and there are bigger problems to deal with.

Jessica stomps up the stairs to the lawyer’s apartment. It’s midnight, and she’s more than a little drunk. He answers on the third knock – more like tremor – and his voice is that rough, low way, just how she likes it. She mutters something about not knowing why she’s here. But she knows exactly why she’s here. And so does he. He blushes a little, she thinks, but she’s not sure. Everything is a little fuzzy, and she’s just so damn warm, and he’s wearing too many damn clothes. Jessica hates feelings. Always has. Shove them to one side, deal with them later, or preferably, never. That’s why drink was invented. But when they’re this overwhelming, there’s no other way around them. She freaks out a little, after she kisses him, the hand holding the bottle dropping it to where it bounces off of his apartment floor.

But he’s just as hungry as she is. His hand comes to her neck and pulls her in again, her lips numb with alcohol.

Jessica never thought someone could taste this good. And he’s strong – she’s not worried she’ll break him, like some fine porcelain doll. Her visits to his place – however brief – and wonderful and rough and _good_. One of the first good things she’s had to herself for a while. He doesn’t judge her. Maybe it’s a Catholic thing, she wonders. They swap leads on cases. It’s fitting, in their businesses. She’ll come by sometimes and he’s lying on the couch, asleep, midway patched-up with a bandage in one hand and some tape in the other. She shakes her head and half-smiles, getting to work on him before he can wake, like some little blessing that comes in his sleep. When he finally gets up she’s rewarded with those gentle, thankful kisses that make her blush and bat him away in faux disgust.

But she likes him, and he likes it when she’s flustered.  

Jessica stops drinking when he’s around. It’s too much, that look he gives her. He says nothing, but it’s not the first time he’s had to pick her up from wherever she’s fallen into a drunken daze. And _he’s_ supposed to be the blind one. He takes care of her. And although she’d never say it, she’s grateful. He’s patching up her faith in people, that not every man who wants her is some sort of mind-twisting monster. However unlikely the hurdle, it is nonetheless one she has to get past. Sometimes she has to push him away, shaking, and he’ll raise his hands, non-threatening, shuffle over to her and hold her again until the shaking stops and Kilgrave’s voice dissipates and blissful silence returns. It’s an unspoken thing. It’s only happened twice, but Jessica refuses to speak of it. He understands. The feel of his fingers through her hair, down the skin of her shoulders, over the curves of her hips, is enough to wash everything she’s worried about away. She spends more time at his every day.

But this is the future that did not happen.

Jessica storms over to the Chikara Dojo, her hand on the door hard enough to splinter the wood of the frame. Danny looks up, brow furrowed, and then down at the scarf in her other fist.

“Jessica?”

His tone is gentle, sincere. She doesn’t care. She thrusts out the scarf, all she has left of him – _and even that, now, too, is gone_ – her face twisted in… rage? Pain? She isn’t sure. She hates feelings. Always has. Her eyes sting and water. Her voice is thick and rasps over each word.

“We have to get him back.”


End file.
